by Leda Swann
He shuddered with desire at the very sight of her. How long it had been since he had held her in his arms, since he had spent the night with her making love to her in every way invention had taught him.
He forced his way through the crowd around her bed to her side and dropped on to his knees by the side of her bed. “Francine, my love,” he cried, seizing her hand and bringing it to his lips with all the passion he felt for her down to the very depths of his heart.
Overcome with his emotions – joy at seeing her once again mixed with relief at finding her well and happy – he could not give voice to all that he wanted to say to her, to all the love he wanted to pour into her lap. He could only clasp her hand to his heart and gaze at her with tender adoration. “Francine, my adored one.”
Chapter 5
Francine snatched her hand away out of his grasp with a sinking feeling in her heart. Damn and blast the boy. He had the worst sense of timing imaginable, not to mention a complete and utter lack of manners.
His display of idiocy could not have come at a worse moment. She had just put on a thoroughly believable show for one of the Cardinal’s cronies about how much she had missed the court while she had been languishing in exile and how glad she was to be back at Court and reinstated as the King’s mistress once again, and Metin the first had to turn up to spoil it all. How could she possibly pose as a neglected woman, living only for the notice of the King, if her old lovers were to turn up out of the blue and spoil it all for her with a couple of ill-spoken words?
Metin the second would never have caused such a scene. He was far too savvy for such nonsense. He would have taken the situation in at a glance and strategically retired from the field. He would not have stayed to be dismissed. What a pity Metin the first did not have such sense. For all his beauty, Metin the first had no wit and no sense of what was right or appropriate.
How could she have remained infatuated with him for two months together while she had been in the country? She hardly knew how she had managed it. Seeing him again now, in the middle of the Court, she saw how paltry he was. He had no fashion, no style, no grace, no presence. His hair was undressed, his face unpainted. True, he had a fine pair of legs, but then again, so did her footmen, and she would never even consider lowering herself by inviting either of them into her bed.
How desperate for company she must have been during her exile that she could find herself well satisfied with such a one as he.
She saw the Cardinal’s crony smirking and whispering to a group of those who huddled around him. One of them threw a glance in her direction, and they all laughed.
She would not tolerate such disrespect. Metin the first, poor foolish boy that he was, would have to be sacrificed to her dignity. “Who are you, pray, that you accost me in such a familiar manner?” she said in her frostiest tone of voice. “I do not think I know you.”
His face grew pale and he simply stared at her. “You do not know me, Madame?”
She could almost feel sorry for the desolation she saw writ on his face, but she had to be cruel to be kind. He had to find out sooner or later that she would not live among the pigs and pumpkins and peasants for him. “I certainly have no wish to know you. You are rude and unmannerly, to intrude thus upon my morning levee with your wild talk.”
He dropped her hand and rose to his feet, his face composed but pale as death. “I must apologize for my rudeness, Madame. I thought I knew you, but you turned out not to be the woman I thought you were.” His voice shook a little. “I see now that you are some one else entirely. Please forgive my intrusion. It was well meant.”
He would get over it soon enough, she thought, as he strode to the door. He was young. Indeed, he ought to be grateful to her. She had just helped him to grow out of his innocence and naivete. Never again would he take the words of a woman at face value. He would be more careful in the future on whom he bestowed his heart. A broken heart once mended was stronger and more resilient than it had been before the breaking. He would not be so easy to hurt, nor would he love so easily again.
Indeed, she had done him a service by bruising his young heart a little. Far from blaming her for her fickleness, he ought to thank her for the care she had taken of him.
She turned back to the group of courtiers who surrounded her with a ready smile and shrugged. “One has all sorts of admirers that one never knew about before,” she said with a winning smile. “I suppose I should feel flattered. Though how the poor boy thought he could ever compete with the King...” She let the last sentence trail off. No harm in reminding her audience at every turn that she was the King’s chosen bedfellow once more.
There was a smattering of sycophantic laughter. Francine sat in the middle of it, propped on her pillows, perfectly at ease with herself and with her conscience.
Jean-Paul Metin strode along the cobblestone towards the barracks, kicking a loose stone savagely in front of him. Francine, his beautiful Francine, had played him for a fool. He had not thought it possible that some one so beautiful could be so false. How could a woman with the face of an angel from Heaven above possess the soul of a very devil, as black and as rotten as Satan himself?
He had loved her, adored her, worshipped her, and all the while she was laughing up her sleeve at him.
She had never loved him at all. That thought gave him more pain than anything else. If she had felt so much as a tiny fraction of the love he felt for her, she could never have cast him off so cruelly, humiliated him so publicly, as she had this morning. He had felt like an unmannerly boor, rudely daring to put his uncouth paws on her beautiful white body without an invitation. She had deliberately made him feel that way.
He had poured his heart and soul out to her, and she had denied him in front of the whole Court. She had destroyed all meaning in the love they had shared. He was left with nothing. Nothing. Even his memories of their lovemaking were dirty and sullied. Even in his memory she had played him false - she had never loved him.
Miriame knocked heavily on the door to the western gate with her gloved fist, wondering whether she should stay to be let in, or run while she had the chance.
Berthe must have been waiting for her. She opened it on the instant and showed her inside. “Come in. My mistress is expecting you.”
Miriame followed her with leaden steps, already wishing she had chosen to run. She knew full well she was playing with fire. She only hoped the rewards would be worth the danger.
The Marquise was sitting in her antechamber, a piece of fine stitchery in her hand. She rose to greet Miriame with a smile. “Ah, my dear friend, so you came to see me after all.”
Miriame bowed. “Indeed, Marquise. Did I not make a promise that I would be here?”
The Marquise gave an arch look as she sat back down again on one end of a long sofa. “Not all men keep their promises.” She patted the cushion beside her and gave Miriame an inviting smile. “Specially not their promises to women.”
Miriame ignored the unspoken request to sit beside the Marquise. “You cannot hold it against men in general that certain of their number are rascals.”
She pouted a little when Miriame chose to sit on a high-backed chair on the other side of the chamber, well out of the way of the Marquise’s talons. “Indeed, I would never dream of it. I trust you. You are my friend, come to succor me in my loneliness. For that I owe you my thanks.”
“I must apologize that I have only a very short time to spend with you tonight,” Miriame said. “I would never have come at all, save for my promise.” And the hopes of another jewel or two to add to my growing hoard, she thought to herself. It would be as well not to kill the golden goose as long as it continued to throw the odd golden egg or two in her direction.
“You are sick of me already?”
“I have been ordered on a mission that must take me out of Paris tonight. I should have been on my way some hours before.”
“A mission?” The Marquise’s eyes lit up with excitement, scenting a new piece of gos
sip like a greyhound scenting a rabbit. “Tell me more about your mission.”
“It is a secret mission,” Miriame said, her voice as grave as she could make it. She hoped the Marquise would buy her story. “I would not dream of putting you in danger by breathing the least hint about it. I should not even have told you as much as this, but I will be gone for some days. I would not have you think I had forgotten you.”
Her bottom lip quivered. “I am to miss you before I have even got to know you, my new friend?”
Miriame stood up again and bowed in Francine’s direction. “I am sorry for the necessity of leaving you, but duty calls. Fare thee well, Marquise. May God keep you in His grace until we meet again.”
Francine rose from her seat to bid her farewell. “Take this, my brave soldier, to speed you on your way,” she said, pressing a small bag into Miriame’s hands. “Come back to me when you return. I will not rest in peace until I know you are safe.”
Miriame bowed over her hand and backed out of the chamber. She felt mighty pleased with herself. Not only had she scored herself a hefty bag of gold, but she had also come up with a very good reason for avoiding the lusty Marquise for some weeks.
She could always pretend that the top secret mission had been delayed, that she had been in danger of her life, that she had been imprisoned and only just escaped, or a thousand other lies that the Marquise would have no choice but to swallow. Being a soldier was proving to be a good enough excuse to cover a multitude of sins.
Sophie and Courtney were waiting for her at the gate of the city. She put her spurs to her new gelding to hasten him up a little. He suited her well enough, but he lacked the fire of her black mare and would lag behind if she did not keep encouraging him. Enough of a moon was showing through the clouds to let them make good speed without endangering their horses.
She had not lied to the Marquise about her mission. She was, indeed, on her way to England. Sophie, Courtney and her, on a mission to save the world or some such nonsense. She’d not exactly listened hard to Sophie’s explanations as to why honor and duty demanded that they ride as fast as they could to warn the English King about some plot against the life of his sister.
She didn’t care about royalty and their struggles. Neither did she give a toss about honor and duty or secret missions. But Sophie had mentioned a magic phrase – one thousand gold pistoles to share among the three of them for a job well done – and she had agreed on the instant. One thousand gold pistoles – she could hardly imagine such wealth. Even a third of it would more than double her savings so far. She would go further than England, she would go to the far-off Americas and more, to earn such a princely sum.
How she wished that Rebecca was here to share her wealth with her. Poor Rebecca. She had not been able to protect her sister when she needed it most, and now Rebecca was dead. No amount of hoarded gold would save her now.
She blinked furiously, glad of the darkness that hid her watering eyes from her friends. She would not like them to see her weakness. The fastest route to an early death was letting others guess where you were vulnerable. Weaknesses were best kept to oneself.
Nothing would bring Rebecca back to her. She had promised Rebecca on her deathbed that she would look after herself. She would honor that promise.
The night was breaking into dawn before Sophie would let them stop to rest. Miriame was dog tired but determined not to show it. The events of the past few days had exhausted her beyond what even she could well bear.
She flopped onto the bed at the inn next to Courtney with a sigh of relief. What was Metin doing at the moment, she wondered, as she drifted off to sleep. Was he lying in his bed in the early dawn wondering the same about her? Or were his thoughts still fixated on the Marquise, Francine?
Foolish boy, if so. She doubted he would get far with the Marquise. Oh, no doubt the woman had welcomed him into her bed with great alacrity – he was as beautiful as an angel after all – but she would never let him into her heart. She was far too selfish for that. The Marquise was not a serious rival for Metin’s affections. She would weary of him soon enough and turf him out on his ear. Then he might have the leisure to think of a new woman, of a new love...
Maybe it was just as well that Sophie had called on her assistance for this mission to England. She could feel the danger in thinking on Metin too long. She must not forget that he was a soldier and her enemy. Without meaning to, she had done him a great wrong, and could not even repent of her sin. Never had a single theft proved so profitable. She would do it all over again tomorrow.
Still, he had called her beautiful – and meant it. God in Heaven knew what she would do about his interest in her, but she didn’t want to give him up just yet. She wanted to get to know him just a little better, to talk to him, just to be near him. She would even wear a dress for him, though admitting to her sex in public was more dangerous than she liked.
Jean-Paul Metin. She had chosen her name well. She liked the name, it rolled off her tongue easily. She liked the man it belonged to even better. She was already looking forward to their next meeting. There was a smile on her face as she drifted off to sleep.
A sharp jab in the ribs and she was awake on the instant, though she didn’t want to be. She gave a sleepy grumble and turned over. She had been having the most marvelous dream and was thoroughly annoyed at being woken.
“Get up. We have visitors,” Sophie hissed into her ear as she shook the still-sleeping Courtney.
Her dream was gone and with it any chance of getting back to sleep. She rose reluctantly to her feet, stumbled sleepily over to the casement window and looked out into the yard to see who had come a-visiting.
Sophie’s new husband, the Count Lamotte, was in the courtyard holding a sweating horse. With him were two others.
She felt her blood run cold. Rebecca’s killer was here, the cold-voiced killer, in the very courtyard of the inn, with the Count Lamotte.
Sophie had not been speaking idly or exaggerating the difficulties that lay in their way when she had said their mission was dangerous and they might be pursued. She doubted that Sophie’s husband meant them any harm, but his being in the company of the killer with the cultured voice made her squirm.
She had no doubt that their lives were in danger – all three of them – whether or not Sophie’s husband intended them harm or no. Whoever had sent the killer after them meant serious business. They were clearly not meant to come back alive. Even if the Count did try to save his wife, chances are the other two would murder him along with the rest, if they could. She doubted that Rebecca’s killer would prove squeamish about adding another body to the pile of those he had already murdered.
Her first thought was to run, to get as far away from him as fast as possible and to hide out of sight, but she dismissed it on the instant. That would not work. He had their scent. There would be no escape.
Neither would she run and leave her companions behind. They might not know it, but never had they needed her protection more than they did at this moment. Sophie and Courtney had been gently reared – they knew nothing about life on the street. They fought like gentlemen, and would expect others to follow the same rules as they did.
Miriame was under no such illusions. Rebecca’s killer would give them no quarter, but would ruthlessly exploit every weakness he could find. They would prove no match for his street cunning. He would kill them as easily he would slaughter a babe in arms, or a barely grown girl who refused to lift her skirts for him.
She had no choice. Little as she liked it, she would have to take on Rebecca’s killer, gutter rat to gutter rat. She would revenge herself on him now, and protect her friends, or she would die.
She was no longer the frightened girl who had watched in terrified silence as he had forced himself on her sister, and then slit her throat as calmly as if he had been slicing himself a piece of cheese. She had better weapons than her fists. She knew how to fight. It was time she tried out her new skills on her old enemy.
If she died at his hands, so be it. She would have tried her best and would have died in a cause worth fighting for. Few women could boast as much.
If she lived, so much the better. The specter from her past that haunted each waking hour would at last be laid to rest. She would rest easier in her bed knowing that that particular piece of vermin was dead and moldering in his grave.
She turned back to Sophie and Courtney, her face set. “Go out of the casement and escape that way. I shall deal with the three of them, and at least delay them long enough for you to get well away.”
Courtney started to protest, but Miriame hushed her. Her mind was made up and she would brook no argument. “I have an old score to settle with one of them. This is my fight. I will have it no other way. Now make haste. Time is a wasting.” She gestured to the high-set window which looked down into the stableyard. “Climb out there, the pair of you. I’ll keep them busy for as long as I can. Our horses are rested and theirs blown, so they will be hard put to it to catch you again, once you get away.”
With one leg over the windowsill, Sophie turned back to Miriame. “Be careful of yourself. Keep the door locked and do not open it to them on any pretext. You shall be safe enough with the door locked – they cannot come at you then. But if it should come to a fight,” she added, as though it were an afterthought, “do not hurt the Count. I am sure he means us no harm.”
Miriame nodded. Sophie was as careful of her new-wedded husband as of a new-hatched chick. “I will delay him if I can, but I will take care not hurt him unless I cannot help it. He is safe from me. My quarrel is with his companion.”
“Thank you.” Sophie’s face was white and set as she raised her hand to wave goodbye. “Until we meet again in Paris.”
Courtney jammed her hat down over her ears. “Au revoir, Madame thief. Until Paris.”
